


A Sip of Something Poison

by disalae



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Character study through porn, Comfort Sex, F/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't mean anything, except when it does. Comfort, Isabela-style. Takes place post-Dissent.</p><p>Kink!Meme prompt/original posting here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/5691.html?thread=20815163#t20815163</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sip of Something Poison

Isabela hates the idea that it (hands on her waist and kisses in the hollow of her throat) has to mean anything. Anything significant that is – of course it means something.

It’s just that this something isn’t all that complicated.

What it means is she’s getting _fucked_. And, most of the time, what it (his knee shoved rough between her thighs and her clothing peeled off her like she’s a present) means is something simple, something fun. Something she can do and then forget (sometimes do _to_ forget, in his case anyway) and then do again if she so pleases.

This is what it’s been for months. Fucking.

Easy.

But this (the red rimming his eyes and the sighs and the despair in his voice when he says he needs her), well, this is hard.

And lately, _this_ been happening more and more, and she’s starting to worry that it’s going to begin to…

Mean something.

(To him, anyway, of course)

Anders comes to her room at the Hanged Man late one night, gets there before she even does. When she lights the lantern she nearly jumps of her skin at the sight of him sitting on the edge of her bed, twisting her comforter between his fingertips and staring at his feet like they’re the most interesting things in the world.

“I’m sorry,” is the first and only thing he says.

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

He repeats his apology.

A little grin tugs at her mouth. “You know, if anyone else had seen me jump like that, I’d never work in this city again.”

A third time.

“Stop it,” she says sharply, tugging off her earrings and dropping them on the dresser. “It’s going to lose all meaning if you just keep throwing it around like that.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then reconsiders, then doesn’t say anything at all.

The room smells like damp wood and sharp liquor, and the floor creaks under her boots as she slowly sheds her clothing.

“So, sweet thing, what brings you here looking so wound up?” she asks lazily, picking at the laces of her bodice. _Blast_ but they are tight today.

“I’m not wound up,” he answers defensively. His hands are in his lap, and he’s twisting them together like he’s trying to wipe them clean. Maybe he is – they’ve all got blood on their hands, after all. Some sticks more than others.

“Oh, is that right?” She’s becoming more and more frustrated as the laces keep getting knotted up, and she feels like she’s going to suffocate if she doesn’t get the damn thing off. “What does wound up look like, then? Do you just immediately have a stroke?”

His frown turns into an outright _scowl_. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here.”

Isabela has never seen anyone get out of her bed so quickly. In barely a blink Anders goes from sunken deep into the mattress to a foot away from her, bolting towards the door like an spooked halla and this damned bodice is making her _angry_ and this is not helping and –

She steps in front of him, right into his path, and he runs into her hard enough to make her lose her footing.

“No,” she says firmly, grabbing a hold of his wrists and putting them against the hopelessly tangled laces. Her voice is tight, impatient. “You aren’t going _anywhere_ until you get me out of this blighted thing.”

Puzzled is the word she would use for the look he gives her. His eyes flit between her face and her bodice and her tits, before he lets out a little resigned sigh and gets to work untangling the ties.

The room smells of damp wood and sharp liquor and elfroot, and the flickering of her sooty lantern is getting awfully romantic.

“Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” His expression shifts, becoming focused and full of avoidance as he chews on the inside of his lip, picking mercilessly at the ties. She’s going to have to change her game. “Or are you just going to shag me silly to get rid of your sour mood and then stomp out as usual?”

His fingers stop briefly. “That’s not fair.”

No, that’s where he’s wrong. Anything’s fair. “You know, I am a person. You can talk to me if you want, for a change.”

“You don’t want to hear about my problems.”

That’s not strictly true. “I’d just rather you didn’t _have_ problems, dear.”

It’s not the nicest thing she’s ever said to him, except actually it probably is. The expression on his face is endearing, like he doesn’t know how to react to kindness, least of all from her.

The bodice is looser now, and she can breathe. His hands fall from the laces and rest lazily on her hips, his thumbs making circles against the hard whalebone.

This used to be easy.

Isabela shifts so she’s closer to him, and can feel his breath against her cheek. “This is about that girl, isn’t it? In the Gallows.”

He laughs bitterly. “And here I’d thought you’d already forgotten.”

He’s talking about earlier tonight, of course. Her questioning. He does this all of the time, thinks she should be able to read his mind. She thinks he should learn how to _speak_ his.

This usually ends in a standoff. Or fucking. Same thing.

“No,” she says slowly, swallowing down the urge to say something biting. “Not exactly something you forget.” She gets even closer, presses herself up against him. Says into his ear, “I suppose I was just hoping you were looking to.”

“How can you even stand to be around me?” he barks, pushing her away roughly, and she can hear a sob clinging to the edge of every word. “I’m a monster. If you hadn’t been there to stop me –

(And by _stop me_ he must mean _throw a stone at my head to divert my attention away from that poor girl._ Means _walk right up to me, blue and glowing and frightening and tell me to pick on someone my own size_. Means _grab me by my collar and shake me until I’m a shuddering mess kneeling on the floor and crying into your hair_.)

–I don’t know what I would have done.”

(Yes, she supposes that’s what he means)

She shrugs, making her way back over to him and sliding her arms around his waist lazily. “I’m sure Hawke would have stopped you. Or Varric. Or even Fenris, though you would probably be dead if it were left up to him.”

This doesn’t seem to help. “What if I had been alone?"

Isabela has never been a fan of these hypothetical games he likes to play, but for this one, the answer is easy. “You probably would have killed her.”

He tenses and she can tell he’s gone into flee mode, so she grabs his biceps and keeps him where he is. “Listen. Sorry. I’m sorry, that,” she looks away, “probably wasn’t the best thing to say.”

He shakes his head. “No, you’re right. I appreciate the honesty.”

Her patience is wearing thin. “I don’t know why you ask things like this. It’s like you want to feel miserable.”

“I deserve to.”

She huffs like a bronto. “Why do you even come here? Do you want to make me miserable too? That’s not very _just_ of you, you know.”

“No!” he says quickly, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “No. That’s not it at all. I just—”

“You just want to feel _better_ , right?” she offers, tightening her grip around him and pressing her breasts against his chest. “You don’t want to be alone.”

He looks down at them (none can resist), swallows hard, and nods.

“I don’t think anyone really does,” she says casually, and brushes a bit of imaginary dirt off his shoulders. His expression is pained, like he has a million thoughts running through his mind and not one word that can adequately express them.

“You’re...” Comforting has never been her...thing. She’s never been very good at it, always seems to say the wrong thing, or say the right thing the wrong way. But, just like with sex, she figures effort means something. “You’re not alone, you know that right?”

His eyes start to shimmer, and he shrugs glumly. “Any more incidents like,” a pause, a hard swallow, “like _that_ , and I will be. But I don’t blame them, I don’t even want to be around me anymore.”

She gives him a look, one that says, _we just went over this whole self-pity thing. Stop it_.

He gets it, and shakes his head. “Sorry. I mean, ah, for Maker’s sake.” He flinches like he’s going to be hit. “I’m terrible company, aren’t I?”

Only sometimes. “Eh, I’ve had worse.”

That seems to cheer him up, somehow. He relaxes into her touch, lets his hands fall lower until his fingertips are flirting with the hem of her tunic, knuckles grazing against her bare thighs. She feels a shiver run through her in anticipation and he notices it, a crooked smile breaking his gloomy façade.

The room smells like damp wood and sharp liquor and elfroot and man.

They barely make it to the bed.

Her bodice never quite makes it off, but it’s loose enough to not be a bother as he pulls and rips at her tunic – he manages to expose her breasts, held up by the top of the bodice and pressed together by the tunic encircling them, and the bottom is hardly an issue (by design, naturally). As for her smalls, well, the way he gets rid of those (twists his fingers around the band and _burns_ them off) is the definition of magic serving man.

“Take this ridiculous thing off,” she grumbles as the feathers from his coat tickle her shoulders.

One of his buckles snaps out from her necklace’s grasp with a _clink_. “I could say the same to you.”

Isabela just laughs – a deep, real one that she doesn’t get to use too often – and she reaches behind her neck to take off her jewelry as he sits back on his heels and starts deftly undoing all of the clasps and buckles and buttons on his coat.

It becomes sort of a race. She loses. Except that while she works on the clasps behind her neck he slides down between her legs, kissing and sucking on her thighs before lowering and licking her from slit to clit, so it doesn’t really feel like she’s lost at all.

One thing she ~~loves~~ likes about Anders is that he licks cunt like a pro, like he’s been practicing all his life. Knows just how to get her writhing and begging and just close enough that she’s guaranteed to come once he starts fucking her, because that’s what she likes and he knows it. Plus he looks her in the eyes, and that always counts for something.

Then again, he also knows she loves sucking cock when she’s like this too (skin buzzing and thrumming and her body hanging on the edge of release), so she supposes it’s probably not completely altruistic.

She gives him a wink and pushes on his shoulders lightly, and he gets it. Gets her. Sits back on his heels with his knees on either side of her, and she twists herself out from underneath him and situates herself, face to his crotch, a grin on her face. When she takes him into her mouth he shudders and groans, grabbing at her hair like it's instinct and her shoulder like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing (he tastes like salt and soap and she can feel his magic humming under his skin).

Not that when she’s like this is the _only_ time she likes sucking cock, mind, and not that his is the only cock she likes to suck. But she’ll admit (only to herself, of course) that he’s her favorite, because the noises he makes are nearly enough to make her come on the spot, and the look on his face is really something to behold – like what is happening to him right now is the best thing to ever happen to him, in his entire life, full stop.

Isabela knows it’s not true, but it makes a girl feel good about herself, now doesn’t it?

“Stop,” he grunts a few minutes later, pulling back gently on her hair and disconnecting her from his cock with a _pop_. He hooks his finger under her chin and coaxes her up, so she squares her stance and sits up off her heels.

They’re both face to face, kneeling on her bed, and he grabs the back of her neck and pulls her into a gentle kiss, something sweet and slow and almost ~~loving~~ no. Almost nothing.

The room smells like elfroot and man and tastes like the two of them.

Isabela likes to be on top – Anders knows this, everyone knows this. But he doesn’t let her, not just yet; puts his fingertips against her chest and shoves her down on the bed, the mattress letting out a sigh as it settles around her. She shifts back to lean against the wall behind her and he stares at her, eyes full of aching desire like he hasn’t seen her like this (legs spread and chest bare, giggling like virgin because he likes her laugh) dozens of times before.

“Yeah?” he asks, because he almost always asks.

She never does. Takes what she wants – and right now, she wants him. Hooking her leg around his waist, she brings him crashing down on top of her. And yes, maybe she’s not on top this time, but she figures he’s had enough of being bossed around today from the spirit in his head – the least she could do was let him control this.

She’s a giver, she is.

Fucking Anders is easy. He’s the first person in a long time she considers an equal in the sack, and it’s absolutely fantastic because she doesn’t have to coddle or teach, nor does she have to hold back. If she wants him to bite her or yank on her hair, he does it. Better, though, is he likes it when she does it to him, too. Likes every bruise and scratch she leaves on him, and tells her as much whenever he gets the chance.

The thing about Anders though, is that if she wanted he would be gentle, too. Would kiss her softly and whisper lovely things in her ear. She’s never asked him to though, and isn’t sure she ever will, but a part of her likes that the option is there (she’ll take that confession to her grave).

But right now none of that matters, because he feels good, so good; thrusts into her hard and with purpose, pressing her even harder against the wall, and she pushes her hips up to meet his with equal resolve.

“For the love of,” she pants, adjusts herself. Abandons syntax. “Harder. Fuck.”

Hooking his hands under her knees, he pulls her further down on the bed so that she’s laying flat on her back, her legs wrapped around his hips, and with an arrogant smile she likes to think only she can bring out in him, he obliges. Fucks her as hard as he can, sitting up off his heels and holding her up against him, and Isabela knows for a fact that – besides feeling absolutely incredible – this position makes her tits look amazing.

The look he’s giving her, staring down at her with his jaw clenched tight and his eyes glazed over in lust as he watches her breasts bounce with every thrust, does nothing to contradict.

She wants him closer, though – puts her hands out and rakes her fingernails against his chest and stomach, trying to coax him down so she can feel him. She knows she’s close, frustratingly close, and wants feel his skin and sweat and heat and magic against her.

Anders can tell she’s close, too. She can see it in the way he looks at her. But he doesn’t give in to her demands; instead runs his hands up the back of her thighs and gives her a tiny shock, nothing more than a small pinch and vibration and hum against her flesh.

It’s enough – she comes apart around him with a growl that starts deep in her chest and makes it’s way to her throat, where it manifests itself as a string of curses and his name and the names of gods she doesn’t believe in.

His pace slows and he leans down to kiss her hungrily, her legs still tight around his waist, trembling.

She bites his lip and doesn’t let go until she speaks. “If you slow down now, I’ll slit your throat.”

The thrust he gives her is unexpected and makes her gasp. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He’s true to his word. Fucks her unashamedly hard until she can feel herself building up again, and it’s so all-consuming that she barely even notices when her head hits the wall, hard and with a sound that she’s sure was heard out in the bar (this is confirmed by a muffled catcall and whistle).

Her eyes fly open and she laughs a little, and he _looks_ like he’s about to apologize, but instead bites his tongue. Instead runs his hand behind her head and tangles his fingers in her hair, making his hand a barrier between her and the wall, and barely misses a beat. Every thrust pushes his palm against her head, and he moves his fingers against her scalp in patterns she doesn’t understand.

She finds herself wondering if they mean something.

Just like he can tell she’s close, she can do the same with him. He starts to tense up, just slightly; his thrusts become more desperate, faster and with more purpose; his small gasps and pants become moans and growls; his magic becomes less contained, and tiny sparks and flashes jump off of his hands and bounce across her skin.

Oh, and he looks her dead in the eye and begs, _begs_ her to kiss him, and when she does it’s so raw and full of…of _something_ that it makes her come again, this time aching and slow like a boat lost at sea, bobbing and lilting in the waves.

Anders comes with a gasp, sparks and frost dancing across their skin as magic pours out of him, and the room smells like a storm approaching.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into her neck as they come down, melded into one another and panting like two dogs. He mutters something else as well, something he knows she doesn’t want to hear, so he never says it loud enough so that she can. Or maybe she just chooses not to hear. Doesn’t matter.

She kisses him on the temple and lets her lips linger. “You’re sweet.”

Time passes and he starts to get up, because this is what they _do_ ; they talk (or sometimes don’t), they fuck, they go their separate ways. This is how it works.

Easy.

But this time, he just…stays. Sits on the side of the bed, still barely clothed, and seems to be thinking. Or, maybe not so much thinking as dreading. She supposes she would feel the same way if she had to trudge back to Darktown at this time of night. So, that’s expected.

What’s not expected is the way she finds herself suddenly _missing_ his warmth and the smell of elfroot and man and thunder wrapped around her, and the way she thinks about how she’s positive he doesn’t want to be alone, how he probably shouldn’t be alone, and –

Something twists deep in her chest. It scares her.

Oh, balls.

“You can stay,” she says, quiet, almost to herself. He looks over his shoulder at her, puzzled. “If you want.”

“Stay _here_?” He points to the bed. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He’s still giving her an incredulous look, like he thinks there’s a catch. She narrows her eyes and ignores the burning building behind her cheeks. She’s such a fool. “Look, if you don’t want to—”

“No, no,” he says slowly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I mean yes. I suppose it’s just unexpected.”

“Well, it’s because it’s, there might be,” she fumbles, can’t look him in the eye. Offers the only thing she can think of: “Templars?”

It’s not the reason, not really. She knows it, and he knows it, but he’s kind and doesn’t say anything. Just gives her a lopsided smile and shrugs. “Yes. I’d like that.”

And that's that. He shrugs off the last few scraps of clothing he has on and helps her out of hers as well, before they settle in under the covers. It's pleasant enough, even though she's not really sure what to...do. Thing is, Isabela can’t remember the last time she actually _slept_ with anyone – just slept, curled around each other as your breathing slows and your thoughts start to scramble and unfocus.

She settles for slinging a leg over him and tracing shapes on his chest, twisting her fingertips around that scar he never wants to talk about (she'll get the story out of him one day, it's only a matter of time. It has to be a good one, doesn't it?) until she's jumping lazily back and forth between consciousness and sleep.

And in the end, it’s unexpectedly nice, having him here.

But…

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says like she’s half asleep, like it’s an afterthought. Except it’s not at all – it’s every thought.

He doesn’t respond.

The room smells like him. And her. Them.

“It doesn’t,” she repeats softly into his chest, but if it sounds like a lie, it’s probably because it is.

 

 


End file.
